Fowl Play
by dandyparakeet
Summary: Sometimes, when Wheeljack is involved, logic fails even the most logical.
1. Chapter 1

In his comparatively short existence, he'd seen a lot. It came with his position and duty – it _was_ his duty, to notice things. Moreso, sometimes, than Jazz. Jazz, of course, was _designed_ and _sparked_ to notice stuff, and _he'd_ had to learn it all himself, but he still saw a lot of weird slag. _Especially_ since accepting his position on the Ark.

It was common knowledge that the mechs on board the Ark were the elite. Any Autobot, and a lot of Decepticons, could look at the _least_ of the Ark's team and experience instant recognition, coupled with either awe or some amount of fear, depending on the mech's faction. And in the rare cases where recognition _wasn't_ immediate, it was gained the moment the `bot's designation was provided.

It seemed to be some sort of underlying Cybertronian law of nature, however, that any elite mech also had to be graced by some sort of freakish eccentric characteristic – sometimes an outright _glitch_ – to balance out the elite part. After all, it would hardly be fair to all the _normal_ bots, would it, if those with greater talent were also sane?

So, naturally, with just about every `bot on the Ark being either elite, or blessed by some special ability and a tragic background, he'd seen a _lot_.

But this… this went _beyond_ the normal crazy slag. If crazy slag could be _called_ normal… compared to what was currently perched on his helm, though, it probably could.

"Hold very, _very_ still, Prowl," his assistant – who hadn't been assisting very well _at all_ – coached, vainly attempting to sneak up on the tactician's assailant.

"What do you think I'm _doing_?" the SIC grouched, for once abandoning decorum. Seriously, how hard could it have been for his partner to notice that their prey was sitting _on Prowl's head_?! But _no_, Jazz, who was _trained_ to be observant, who was supposed to be one the most observant mechs on_ base_, hadn't bothered to take note of the actual location of their quarry until _Sideswipe_, of all mechs, had pointed it out and fled once he realized that no, Prowl had _not_ randomly decided to wear a hat coated in metal feathers.

He didn't feel any better knowing the red twin had retreated with the promise of finding Wheeljack. The crazy inventor could blow himself up all he wanted, but Prowl wanted no part of explaining to Ratchet why he was in pieces. At least his logic center hadn't crashed yet…

Speaking of which, why _hadn't_ he crashed yet?

Maybe he was finally starting to adapt to the insanity of this infernal ship… ?

"Shh!" the other black and white cautioned. "You might scare it."

As if on cue, the fowl roosting on the tactician let loose a squawk of agreement and shifted, talons digging into the metal of his helm. The SIC hissed and held himself perfectly still. There was no telling what surprises had been included with a certain inventor's latest creation, and he was in no mood to find out.

Naturally, it was at that moment that his com link buzzed to life. _"Ratchet to Prowl."_

Casting his optics heavenward, the tactician heaved a sigh. _"Prowl here. Can it wait, though? I'm a little preoccupied."_

_"So I've heard," _the medic replied. _"Sideswipe says you found one of them."_

_"More like it found me."_ Prowl glanced at what he could see of his unwanted guest – just the tips of the clawed feet and a few ruffled feathers. _"Has Wheeljack been freed yet?"_

_"No, but communications were established not too long ago."_

_"Then do we know the purpose of these… things?"_

Prowl felt his guest shift, and Jazz stilled, trying – and failing – to appear harmless. The tactician raised an optic ridge to display his impatience. He wanted this thing off of his helm, and he wanted it off _soon_. Preferably _before_ it combusted, as Wheeljack's inventions tended to do.

_"Wheeljack said that, originally, they were supposed to convert metal scraps into energon eggs, whatever those are, much like the way humans' chickens lay eggs that the humans use for sustenance. Obviously, something went wrong."_

The tactician snorted, doorwings twitching irritably. _"That doesn't help us at all unless we know what went wrong."_

_"Wheeljack's still working on it. He suggested, though, that you ask your guest and try to communicate with it."_

_"Ratchet? I think you need to see a medic if your advising me to talk to a metallic bird_._"_

On the other end of the line, the medic chuckled. _"I am a medic, Prowl. I'll let you know when our wayward inventor solves his latest puzzle. Ratchet out."_

The com link fell dead.

With a glance at his currently useless assistant, the tactician poked his guest and made an attempt at being civil. "Um… excuse me, but… do you think you could get off my head?"

Jazz, if he hadn't already frozen beneath the fowl's glare, certainly would have then. Optics wide in disbelief, the saboteur looked like Optimus Prime had just murdered Bumblebee. Prowl didn't blame him. After all, the tactician just didn't do illogical things.

Talking to a mechanical bird was one of them.

"Hello? Look, I know you're probably quite comfortable there, but I really need you to exit my helm. You're feet itch."

The bird shifted again, alternately resting its weight on each foot, seeming to consider its perch's request. Finally, to the shock of both Autobots, the fowl flapped its wings and fluttered – more like bumbled – down to Prowl's shoulder.

At least he could see it better now. And it wasn't on his head anymore.

"Well I'll be…" the Special Ops murmured, shaking his head slowly. Immediately the bird was glaring at him again, beady eyes trained on the potential threat. Strange, how it didn't consider Prowl to be a threat… then again, it _was_ Wheeljack who created the thing. No doubt it was prone to be eccentric.

"Thank you," the tactician nodded curtly. The fowl bobbed its head absent mindedly, still regarding his partner suspiciously. "That's just Jazz." Why was he still talking to it? Did it even understand a word he was saying? "He's my… ah… assistant. Partner. Ally." Still no response. "Friend…?"

The bird blinked, looked at the tactician as though processing this new information, and did the bobbing-nodding thing again. The glare ceased, and its attention turned to studying their surrounding, searching for other threats.

Prowl sighed, and his guest immediately swiveled its head on its longish neck to look at him curiously. Somewhat startled, the SIC almost smiled at the bird's apparent concern.

Almost.

"I'm okay. Just… stressed, is all." Great. Now he was talking to it like it really did understand him, _and_ was capable of sympathizing with his troubles. What was _wrong_ with him?

The bird chirped questioningly and flexed its feet. Prowl smiled dryly. "I didn't really appreciate having you on my helm."

Sheepishly, his guest sort of shrank back with a clear apology. Jazz laughed and clapped his partner on the shoulder. The enforcer, strangely offended at the ridicule his guest was receiving, scowled. "Play nice, Jazz."

"It ain't sentient, Prowl. Besides, it's kinda cute, ain't it?" The saboteur giggled. It was rather undignified, but since when had Jazz had any dignity?

"Cute?" the tactician repeated, a dangerous tone in his voice. The fowl warbled in agreement. A thought struck the SIC then, one that sent chills down his spinal relays. Not wasting a second, he opened a channel with Ratchet again. _"Prowl to Ratchet."_

_"Ratchet here. Is something amiss?"_

_"Besides having a mechanical bird using me as a perch and currently glaring at Jazz? I'm fine."_

_"Then why the slag are you calling me? In case you didn't know, I'm a little busy."_

Prowl winced – angering Ratchet was never beneficial for the tormentor's health – but carried on nonetheless. _"Has anyone else been claimed as Wheeljack and I have?"_

_"Ah… yes, actually. Why? Looking for someone to complain with?"_

_"Who?"_ If his theory was correct…

_"Now why the slag do you need to know that?"_

_"Ratchet…"_ He _really_ needed to know…

_"Fine. Mirage, Red Alert, Ironhide, Optimus, Sunstreaker, and Blurr."_

_"How many… what did Wheeljack call these things again?"_

_"He didn't. But apparently they're the Cybtertronian version of chickens."_

Chickens? Great… _"How many… chickens… did he make?"_

_"A dozen."_

_"So that leaves four unaccounted for."_

_"Thank you for pointing out the obvious. Now what's your point?"_

Prowl paused before continuing, aware of how ludicrous his theory sounded. _"What if they took on a higher function than Wheeljack intended? From what I've been told, it sounds like they're imprinting on `bots and guarding them."_

_"But then why didn't they imprint on the first `bot they saw?"_ Ratchet argued, but obviously intrigued. _"That would imply that they're deliberately picking and choosing `bots to protect."_

_"I know,"_ the tactician agreed, smiling when his guest pecked his assistant's finger when said finger got too close for comfort. _"But it would make sense."_

_"So you're saying they're sentient, in the same sense the Dinobots are?"_

Smart medic. _"Affirmative."_

_"Wonderful. I'll run it by Wheeljack, see what he thinks first. Ratchet out."_

_"Prowl out."_ The tactician leveled the mechanical chicken on his shoulder a Look. "Jazz, what do you think are the odds of Wheeljack creating sentient chickens?"

The saboteur shuttered his optics in surprise. "Is somethin' wrong with ya, Prowl? First yer defendin' the winged turkey –" here, his guard squawked in indignation at being called a turkey, furthering the tactician's theory of sentiency, " – and now you think it's got a spark `n everythin'?"

"Yes, Jazz," the SIC sighed. "Must I repeat myself?"

The other black and white laughed. "Nah, I heard ya. But seriously. Knowin' Wheeljack? I wouldn' put it past him."

Prowl nodded before smirking slyly, turning to his feathered guardian. "Would you do me a favor and go sit on Jazz's head? I think somebody might be after him, and I'd be depressed if something negative were to happen to him, seeing as he's such a good friend."

The chicken bobbed its – her? – head again and dropped from the tactician's shoulder like a rock. Jazz took one look at the bird and sprinted down the hallway, the fowl giving chase eagerly.

Prowl resumed his stoic expression and walked sedately after. Jazz really ought to learn to be more observant.


	2. Chapter 2

There was silence.

Now, there were different _types_ of silence, for sure. But this… this was not a contemplative silence, nor an awed silence, nor even a dumbstruck silence. It was not awkward, nor uncomfortable. It was just _silent. _And most definitely not instigated because no one knew what to say.

It was silent because there was nothing _to_ say.

Not even the mech who was closest to the screen, who had seen the video recording first and gleefully summoned his commander and almost _always_ had a sarcastic comment practically _jumping_ out of his mouth, thought of uttering even the simplest remark. Anything that could have been said would have already been thought, anyways, so what was the point, except to be painfully redundant? No – he was a scientist, and redundancy had been on his list of things to hate for a long, _long_ time.

Thus he said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

At all.

Except, of course, when it came to inquiring about what they were going to do about it, _if_ they would respond. "So…" he drawled, optics still glued to the screen, "your orders, sir?"

If he had any, that is.

It took a long time for his commander to respond. "Contact Optimus Prime."

"Can't," he sighed idly, his attention slowly returning to its normal state of focusing on everything and nothing at once. "Communications system is still down. The only reason we got this," here he gestured to the screen, "is because Soundwave has his telepathic link with his cassettes."

The silver mech frowned. "So contact him through Laserbeak."

"And how, Megatron, do you expect Optimus to know how to communicate with the flying turkey that dares call itself a spy?" The sarcasm wasn't missed, but it was ignored. Strange… maybe Megatron was going into shock? Such an odd sight was bound to do _something_ to his state of mind, and for someone like the ex-miner, it wasn't an unfeasible act.

"Then send an ambassador, or _something_," growled the commander, ruby optics glowering at no one in particular. "I want to know what the _slag_ that… _thing_… was supposed to be, I want to know who built it, and I want to know _why_. I don't care if you have to sign a fragging _peace treaty_ to find out, just _do_ it!"

"Who do you suggest we send, then?" the mech being addressed asked, just as lazily. True, his curiosity was piqued just at much as Megatron's, but he was better at not showing it. He was, after all, a Decepticon. "Obviously we'll need to send a flyer, and someone who'll be able to get there quickly, before the Autobots can regroup. Otherwise, our _lucky_ messenger will probably be shot down as soon as he enters their air space. Also, your ambassador is going to have to be able to talk his way out of being captured and to assure the Autobots he isn't there to blow up their ship."

Well, that eliminated the majority of the base.

Which left…

…slag.

Megatron seemed to have come to the same conclusion, as a rather foreboding gleam shimmered in his optics. "Thank you for volunteering. You're loyalty will be noted. Feel free to take your trine with you."

The _volunteer_ scowled and shoved himself up from the chair. Shoving his way through the crowd – honestly, how did they all _fit_ in here? – he grabbed a hold of both wing mates and pulled them out with him, snarling all the while about stupid engineers and fragging Autobots who had to go and do slagging stupid things.

"Hey, Starscream? You're kinda startin' to sound like that medic… you know, the one who attacked Devastator for getting too close to one of his patients?" Skywarp babbled, his optics unusually concerned.

"Relax, `Warp," Thundercracker rumbled. "Starscream's just throwing a fit because we have to play mailman for Megatron."

At the mention of their current assignment, the Air Commander's snarling rose in pitch, the aggravating noise bouncing merrily along through the empty hallways. Fragging Megatron, sending his best aerial in to play diplomat to a bunch of imbecilic Autodorks…

"Oh, I know _that_," the teleporter chatted as they entered the hangar specially designed for the Seekers. After all, there were only so many times the Constructicons would fix broken bays and ceilings and whatnot before demanding that Megatron solve the problem permanently _without_ removing the Seekers' wings, because Primus alone knew how temperamental grounded Seekers were, and guess who'd get to reattach all those wings when Megatron tired of their whining? Or when the Seekers rebelled and held him at gunpoint until their wings were returned… or when they all threatened to defect… essentially, wingless Seekers were scary Seekers. "Starscream throws a fit over everything."

Yes, some small part of enraged SIC's CPU noted dryly, he did seem to protest the majority of his life.

But that small part was squished and forgotten as the trine folded into their alt modes and screeched into the skies, making a beeline for the last place any of them wanted to be.

* * *

Thrusters clicked quietly against the abundant rocks, and Starscream sneered at the ground. Seekers did not belong here, down where wheels were predominant and maneuvering was mostly two dimensional. He belonged where everything and nothing was solid, where there were no stable surfaces, where only the best of the best were allowed to go.

The sky was his home. Those fragging Autobots could go and keep their filthy, dusty, dirty ground for all he cared, as long as the sky remained his and his brothers', and only his and his brothers'.

Strange, though, how they hadn't been shot down yet. One would think the Autobots wouldn't be so stupid as to let the Decepticon Air Commander and his trine waltz up to their front door unchallenged. After all, they'd survived this long, so there had to be at least one intelligent mech who could protect his comrades sufficiently enough to keep his faction from total annihilation.

Come to think of it… he hadn't heard any alarms, felt any sudden energy spike as main defensive weapons were loaded, nor sensed any air displaced from rapidly moving bodies. For all intents and purposes, either the Autobots were ignoring them – an incredibly foolish move on their part, he might add – or they hadn't noticed him yet, which was just as unlikely.

The blue jet just slightly behind him rumbled his discomfort, and Starscream couldn't help but agree. Something was seriously amiss here, if their mortal enemies weren't showing any signs that they knew there were three machines of mass destruction knocking on their front door.

"Starscream…"

"I know," he replied curtly, his audios straining for any sounds that might originate from within the base.

"D'you think that maybe they're too busy chasing whatever the slag Wheeljack made this time to notice us?" the teleporter asked, shifting his weight from thruster to thruster nervously.

"They've got that twitchy Red Alert fellow, remember?" the ex-scientist answered, still pushing his sensors to their limits.

"Oh, yeah. Isn't he the mech who's constantly bugging Soundwave because his mental blocks are, like, really, _really_, strong?" Skywarp continued, oblivious to the fact that they were having an almost commonplace conversation deep in enemy territory.

"The only mech I've ever seen extract a reaction from that pathetic drone of a Decepticon," Starscream agreed, admitting defeat and returning his sensors to normal. "He's supposed to be nearly impossible to sneak up on him, too."

"Maybe they were trying too hard," suggested the almost silent third mech. He, too, had been straining his sensors to the limit. Seekers did not enjoy being taken by surprise.

"Hmm… after all, here we are and nothing's happened yet." Starscream tilted his helm and stared at a cactus, taking a moment to categorize it, run a few scans and extract a small sample. Despite being a warrior, his spark still begged for science, and seeing as the Autobots had yet to greet their guests, he might as well spend a moment satiating his intellectual hunger.

That wasn't to say he was unprotected, of course. Thundercracker and Skywarp were long ago introduced and adapted to his scientific tendencies, and would never let anything happen to their wing mate. It was part of being a trine. And, though they would never, _ever_, admit it to an outsider or a fellow Decepticon, they were a lot closer than trines were generally supposed to be.

Unfortunately, that did not include being completely aware. His wing mates were looking for large mechanical beings; anything smaller than a human was discarded as irrelevant and harmless.

So when Starscream felt something latch onto the top of his helm, he was caught completely off guard, which resulted in a rather undignified squawk and a flurry of motion as he panicked. But whatever had attached itself to his helm had a firm grip; despite his wild attempts to dislodge the little monster, it refused to budge. A good twenty earth minutes passed before the seeker ceased struggling, finally realizing that if his attacker hadn't been thrown off in his initial jerk of surprise, it was unlikely to let go after continued movement.

Scowling, Starscream turned to his wing mates for help, only to come face to barrel with a rifle. _Finally_! It was about _time_ those fragging Autobots realized they had guests. "Took you long enough," the Air Commander sneered, glaring at the young face behind the rifle. A little ways away, Thundercracker had both twins sitting on him, while Skywarp…

…idiot.

"It would appear," a black and white Autobot remarked conversationally, emerging from the shadows to stand next to the annoyed Decepticon, "that your colleague is in need of some… assistance."

"Assistance my aft," the jet grumbled, folding his arms across his cockpit and twisting his features into a scowl. He watched the darker seeker convulse on the ground for a few more moments before directing his ire at the gunner currently poking his face with a rifle. "Do you mind?"

The Autobot blinked. "Uh – "

"Protocol, Bluestreak. Until he states his intentions for coming here," the black and white – who looked eerily similar to the youthful gunner – responded automatically, "we treat him as a hostile."

"Don't you think I would have done something by now if I came to do you harm?" Starscream sighed lazily and frowned again at Skywarp. "Megatron has a message for Optimus Prime."

"So he sent his seekers?" The Autobot was, understandably, disbelieving.

Beneath the twins, a blue jet sighed. "More like Starscream volunteered himself."

The once scientist scowled. "Stuff it, Thundercracker. It's hardly _my_ fault Megatron stepped on the – "

"Hold on a sec," interjected the red twin, frowning slightly. "Why would _you_, of all mechs, volunteer to come to the Autobot base, provided Megatron really does have a message for us?"

"Not for _you_," Starscream corrected, beginning to be annoyed. Did Autobots always have to be so slow? "For Prime." He growled when Skywarp continued to make a fool of himself, and loudly at that. "Oh, for the love of Primus, `Warp, would you just _shut up_?!"

A thoughtful look entered the red twin's optic. "You know, I still have some of that adhesive."

His brother looked at him incredulously. "The puce colored stuff that turned neon grey and smelled like week dead organic mush when it dried? _That_ adhesive?"

Sideswipe grinned. "The one and the same."

…How did one manage to create _neon_ _grey_? Gray in itself was a rather drab and unnoticeable color, while neon was the complete opposite and very definition of conspicuous! 'Neon grey' shouldn't be possible!

Then again… they _were_ the infamous twins.

"I figured," this time the cherry terror addressed the Decepticon Air Commander, "that if Skywarp got too annoying, I might be able to let you borrow it. I dunno how it tastes, but if it's anything like the smell, its prob`ly pretty bad."

Skywarp shut up pretty quickly after that, even if his eyes were still shining in mirth and his frame rocked with the tremors of suppressing his reaction to whatever it was that was making him behave so. Red optics kept looking just over the top of Starscream's helm, too… oh, yeah.

He'd been attacked by something that was still… on his… helm…

One glance at the Autobot SIC confirmed his fears. How he managed to miss it, he'd never know, but he did, and now he was cursing himself for it. After all, had not the footage shown one of those… _things_… perched on the tactician? Granted, it had only been a brief glimpse before the mechanical monstrosity had booked it after another black and white mech – Jazz, was it? – and the enforcer left Laserbeak's view looking strangely smug.

Cursing himself for being distracted in the first place – stupid cactus – Starscream cast his optics skywards and was just able to glimpse two sets of small talons. Then a head bobbed over those feet, and a beady eye stared down at him, almost _daring_ him to say something.

The seeker shuttered his optics rapidly and looked to his Autobot counterpart for an explanation. A similar creature was on the tactician's shoulder, staring at him with something between a glare, a suspicious glance, and questioning curiosity. A little bit of disbelief was mingled in there, too…

Great. Now he acted like they were sentient.

Prowl smiled dryly and motioned for Bluestreak to lower his weapon. "I don't think he's a threat anymore, Blue."

…

Well, _that_ crossed another Autobot off his list of likely mechs to be the reason the Autobots hadn't collapsed under their own stupidity yet.

The gunner seemed to be of a similar mindset. "But – he's… he's… Prowl, he's _Starscream_!"

"He has a point," the Decepticon in question added. "I can still fight whether there's something clinging to my helm or not. Not," he amended, "that I am opposed to you leaving yourselves vulnerable. By all means, go ahead."

Prowl dropped the smile, suddenly all business. "You wish to speak with Prime, you said?"

What? No explanation or rebuttal? What was _wrong_ with the Autobot?

Starscream nodded. "Affirmative. I also want to know what the slag is on my helm."

Skywarp snickered, as did both of the twins.

O_kay_… that in itself was weird. Skywarp laughing, not _at_ the twins, but _with_ them? Something was seriously off, here. _Way_ off. Skywarp and twins agreeing on something was simply something that was against the laws of nature itself. Albeit Cybertronian nature, but nature none the less.

The tactician's optics dimmed, presumably as he contacted Prime. A moment later, as they brightened again, two more of the _things_ strutted calmly from the base, looking quite like they owned the place. One was smallish and tinged with red; the other a motley of black and silver. The enforcer nodded cordially to them – what the _slag?_ – and turned back to the seeker. "Prime will be here shortly."

Starscream's attention, though, was drawn to the little monstrosities. The scientist inside of him demanded to dissect, study, reassemble, and run every possible test on them, but the warrior reminded him there was still a gun pointing to his head. That, and one of the little buggers was on that very helm…

The reddish tinged one made its way over to Sunstreaker, who scowled at the pest. "I thought I told you to stay inside?"

The bird somehow managed to scowl in reply, and trilled a surly answer. The yellow twin rolled his optics. "Have you taken a good look at the Seekers lately? Skywarp's too busy laughing his aft off to be a threat, Sides and I are sitting on Thundercracker, and Blue's got Screamer at point blank."

Clack-cluk-clack.

"I don't care if Alessia sent you or not."

Who the frag was Alessia? It certainly wasn't a Cybertronian name. In fact, his databanks labeled it as Italian, with the meaning of _defender_. Also, a femme name. So where the slag did the Autobots get femmes? And femmes with Earth names and the ability to command creepy human-sized monstrosities as though they were sentient?

Trill-click-click.

"Ah, yes," smirked the red twin, "but that would entail leaving Wheeljack unguarded, would it not? And Alessia would _never_ do that to her _dear_ creator."

Screech-cluck-cluck.

So engrossed was he by the one-sided conversation, the Seeker didn't realize Optimus had arrived until the Prime shifted and spoke. "Starscream."

Ruby optics met blue. "Prime."

"You wished to speak with me?"

"No."

A confused look crossed the Autobot Commander's face. "Then why have you come?"

"Because _Megatron_ wants to speak to you. _I'm_ just the unlucky `con who got stuck in the middle." The wing commander glanced at Sunstreaker and his… thing… noting that they were still arguing. How one could argue with a non-sentient being was beyond him, though.

"Then why does he not use the communications system?"

Wasn't it obvious? "It's… in repair." Normally, he might have mentioned that Megatron was the one to break it in the first place, but he really, _really_, wanted to leave as soon as possible.

"I…see." Optimus' optics were calculating, giving Starscream the look that made him feel like he was strapped to an examination table in an Autobot lab. He shuddered.

Yeah, that had happened once. _Not_ something he wanted to repeat, either.

"Of course you do," the jet drawled, glaring at the rifle hovering three inches from the middle of his facial components. Bluestreak was, of course, unperturbed by the glare. Get one of his companions to so much as _twitch_, though, and the gunner's mouth'd be off and running almost as fast as Starscream could fly.

Oh, yes, he'd know. Idiot chattered up a storm last time they'd had him and his team captured. Another experience that didn't bear repetition.

Prowl frowned, gave the little monster on his shoulder a confused look, and leaned up – yup, he leaned _up_, however impossible that may seem – to whisper something in his leader's audio. Prime rumbled an affirmative and turned his attention back to the Seeker.

"Prowl wishes to speak to you after our little… meeting."

"And he couldn't ask me himself why…?"

"Protocol," Bluestreak snapped, then flinched at the sharp look directed his way.

"Ah. Well…" Starscream took a moment to consider it. On the one end of the spectrum, he _really_ wanted to get back to the Nemesis while it was still quiet. But clear across on the other side, he also had a feeling Prowl wouldn't ask to talk to him if there wasn't a fragging good reason for it. "Perhaps. I'll consider it."

The Autobot SIC nodded and retreated further into his leader's shadow. Pha. Mechs shouldn't have to stand in another's shadow. It was why he'd joined the Decepticons – so they wouldn't have to cower in the council's shadow any longer. And if it weren't for one mech – the identity of which he was _still_ trying to discern – they'd be successful by now. And, despite common belief, he knew for a fact it _wasn't_ Optimus.

Prime rumbled to get his attention.

Speak of the unmaker.

"And what is so important that Megatron sends his three elite Seekers to deal with it personally?" It wasn't said vocally, but the Air Commander was receiving the distinct impression that the Prime was in a minor hurry.

The messenger pointed at his helm. "He wants to know what the slag these things are, who made them, and why." As though aware of the insult, the mechanical monster snapped at the offending digit.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

Optimus nodded. "Lower your weapon, Bluestreak. Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, release Thundercracker. Skywarp… ah… Prowl, why isn't Skywarp detained?"

The tactician sighed nearly imperceptibly. "He detained himself, sir."

"…in that case, Skywarp, you're free to release yourself."

It took a moment for the gunner to subspace his weapon, and a moment longer for the twins to regain their footing – Sunstreaker was still arguing with the little red thing, while Sideswipe had taken to poking the black and silver one – and then _another_ moment for the teleporter to compose himself sufficiently, but eventually his trine mates were flanking him again.

Primus, but it felt good to have them there again. Their absence in situations like these tended to make him… twitchy. Yes, that was a good word for it.

Twitchy.

"The creatures in question," the Autobot Commander began, "have yet to be named by their creator, who is our Chief Engineer, Wheeljack. However, through the limited communications we have set up with him, he said they were inspired by creatures on Earth called _chickens_, which produce sustenance for humans. These mechanical counterparts originally served a similar function, in which they ingest metal scraps and convert them into energon."

Starscream stared for a moment, glanced at the thing – a chicken, he corrected himself, but not quite a chicken – stared at the twins and their avian friends, noted the mechanical thing on Prowl's shoulder, and then looked back at Prime. "Alright. So tell me, Prime, why have they taken to sitting on mechs' helms?"

"There was a… I believe Wheeljack called it a malfunction, but Red Alert mentioned something about half his cameras shorting out… when they were first onlined, and they escaped into the base. Apparently, they're sentient."

"…you're completely serious, aren't you."

"Affirmative."

"And you still haven't explained how to get the stupid thing off my head."

He swore Prime was grinning beneath that mask… "You'll figure it out." And then the large red and blue mech was disappearing into the _Ark_, leaving one highly irritated Seeker, his amused trine mates, an off-kilter Prowl, the twins, and a nervous sharpshooter to sort things out themselves.


End file.
